


Wild Horses Could Not Drag (Spank) Me Away - Illustrated by Sunfall_Of_Ennien

by SixthElement (magicalmysticalmanservant)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Barebacking, Bottom Merlin (Merlin), Caning, Dom/sub, Don’t worry Merlin gets what he deserves :), Gags, M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit, Merlin's Neckerchief (Merlin), NSFW Art, Non-Consensual Spanking, Rimming, Sassy Merlin (Merlin), Spanking, Sub Merlin (Merlin), Top Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Voyeurism, gwaine is there, the horses r just chillin too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26538802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalmysticalmanservant/pseuds/SixthElement
Summary: Everyone knows that Merlin is the special favorite of Prince Arthur. But when Merlin accidentally loses one of Arthur’s horses during a hunting trip, Arthur is forced to punish Merlin for his forgetfulness in front of all the knights to prove that he still has control over his manservant.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 182





	Wild Horses Could Not Drag (Spank) Me Away - Illustrated by Sunfall_Of_Ennien

**Author's Note:**

> A note on names: Hengroen (HEN-grone) and Llamrei (LAHM-ray) are the canonical names of King Arthur’s horses from the legends.
> 
> The art in this fic was done by the AMAZING [Sunfall_Of_Ennien!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfall_of_Ennien/works?page=1) Seriously, I'm in awe of her work, and I absolutely LOVE me some Merlin getting spanked. If you enjoy the illustrations, go pile some love on Sunfall.

Hengroen is found almost as soon as he was lost, just a few yards from camp, munching happily on a sprig of green grass sticking up from the frost. 

Arthur and all the knights are watching as Merlin walks the stallion back to camp and re-ties his halter to a branch - securely, this time. The knot came loose and he had simply wandered off and found himself a snack, no harm done. But it was pure luck that Merlin failed to properly tie up the docile, tame stallion instead of the skittish, flighty mare. If it had been Llamrei instead, Arthur and his knights would be out searching for her till dawn. No doubt word would get back to the king if that were the case, and Arthur wouldn’t be able to spare Merlin from a night in the stocks, or the bite of a whip. 

The knights all know Merlin is the prince’s special favourite. And that’s exactly why Arthur must punish him now, to prove his loyalties aren’t muddled by his affection for a particular servant. Losing a prince’s horse, even temporarily, is a grave offence that would have anyone else in Merlin’s station strung up and whipped, or sacked on the spot. Or both. 

Arthur rises from his log and crosses the distance between himself and Merlin in a few strides. He grabs him by the front of his scarf and presses the other one of his hands over the back of Merlin’s neck. Merlin lowers his head and does his best to look subdued, which is easy because Arthur’s hand on the back of his neck is like a magic button that turns his bones to butter. Arthur knows this, and he uses it to his advantage, when he needs to. Or when he wants to.

“Merlin, you _idiot_ , are you sure he’s secured properly this time?”

“Yes, My Lord-” Merlin’s breath comes out in little stutters. The tips of his ears are turning pink.

“Do you realize how much your accident could have cost us? In this cold, a lost horse is a _dead_ horse.”

“Good thing she wasn’t lost, then, right?” Merlin smiles.

Arthur’s nostrils flare with indignation. Uther would beat a servant half to death for such ilk, and the knights are probably expecting Arthur to beat Merlin, too. He’d never do that, but if he lets Merlin get away with this, word will undoubtedly get back to Uther that Arthur failed to punish his servant, and Merlin will have a much higher price to pay when they get back home. 

He drags Merlin over to a thick log near the treeline. It’s at the edge of the camp, away from the little circle around the fire, which gives them _some_ modicum of privacy, but it’s still in full view of all the knights. “Arthur - what are you doing?” Merlin asks, and Arthur hears that little edge of panic in his voice that _shouldn’t_ turn him on, but it _does._

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur snaps. Merlin shuts up, only because he’s knocked breathless when he suddenly finds himself tossed over Arthur’s knees like a sack of armour, his face inches from the ground. The log beneath him, Arthur above him, and all the blood rushing to his head--

Arthur doesn’t even allow Merlin a moment to regain his balance before his right hand comes down on the top of Merlin’s breeches. The sound rings out in the cold, thin air. Merlin cries out, more out of surprise than pain, and his hand reflexively comes back to cover his arse. That’s a plus for Arthur because it just makes it easier to restrain him. He removes his left hand from Merlin’s neck and instead takes hold of Merlin’s wrist, pressing it against the dip of his spine. He bites the fingertip of his right-hand glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside into the dirt. Then he rips off the other one. He hits Merlin again on the other side of his arse, and the sharp smack that his bare hand makes is _delicious_. It's echoed by an even more delicious whimper from Merlin. One of the knights hoots scandalously. Arthur hits him again. 

“Arthur - come on - not in front of - _ow_ , that bloody hurts!” Merlin pulls at Arthur’s hold on his wrist, but his arm is like a noodle, with no force behind it. Arthur knows Merlin could break free of his hold if he really wanted to. He isn’t that weak. But for all his useless flopping around, he never makes a true attempt to get away. Actually, the way he’s wiggling is just pressing his arse higher in the air, making it an easier target for Arthur’s hand. Arthur hits him again and again. 

“At least take me into your tent, Arthur, please, _ow_.”

“You see, Merlin, this is exactly my problem with you. Here you are over my lap and you’re still making demands of me. _And_ failing to address me properly.” Arthur raises his knee, angling Merlin’s hips higher in the air, and strikes him across the top of his arse. Merlin yelps, flailing uselessly. 

“Sire - _ow_.”

“Try again, Merlin.” _Smack!_

“Ow! My Lord!” 

Arthur drums his fingers against the heated seat of Merlin’s arse. Merlin whines. He knows what Arthur wants, but he’s holding back. Arthur waits. Raises his hand to strike again. 

“Master,” Merlin breathes, and he turns his face into the log but the tips of his ears are bright red, giving away his humiliation. Arthur does not often insist on that particular title, except for when Merlin’s being punished. Merlin hates that it makes him feel small and subjugated and _owned_. He loves it for the exact same reasons. 

“That’s it, my boy,” Arthur says sweetly. He strokes Merlin’s arse with his palm, and Merlin shifts, rocking forward uselessly on Arthur's lap. 

“Master,” Merlin whines again. 

“Isn’t there something you’re still missing?”

Merlin presses his face into the log, silent.

“Then you leave me no choice.” Arthur hooks his fingers into the waistband of Merlin’s breeches and gives them a rough shove down over his thighs, and slaps him on his bare arse. Merlin flails, his struggles renewed. The bite of cold air on his exposed cheeks registers in his addled mind as pain, and it's almost as sharp as the strike of Arthur’s hand when it comes down like an iron across his skin. He howls like a wolf, bucking his legs and kicking up a spray of snow. A chorus of whistles ring out from around the campfire and Merlin knows his bare, red arse is making for an enjoyable suppertime show. 

Arthur feels something hard pressing against his thigh and he realizes with equal parts shock and delight that it’s Merlin’s cock, straining against the front of his trousers and trapped between their bodies. He strikes him again with renewed force, a flurry of blazing slaps across the join of his arse and thigh. Merlin’s whole body clenches up, but he takes the blows in silence, breathing through gritted teeth. After a barrage of slaps that makes his _own_ palm sting, Arthur finally stops to inspect the damage.

Merlin has his forehead pressed against the log, and his shoulders are trembling. His jacket and tunic have rucked up towards the middle of his back, revealing a slice of ivory skin. Arthur can feel Merlin’s stomach rising and falling with heaving breaths, bony ribs pinned against his knees. He hears a soft, raspy gasp and an even softer sob. He stops, his hand hovering in mid-air over the servant’s backside. A spike of guilt rushes through him. He hadn’t meant to make him _cry_.

“Merlin, are you--” 

Merlin turns his face to look up at him, sideways, his cheek pressed against the log. 

He’s not crying. He’s _laughing._

“Is that as hard as you can hit? I thought you’d been trained to kill since birth.”

“ _Ohhhh_ ,” Arthur hears Sir Gwaine holler from the camp circle.

Arthur stares down at Merlin in shock. “You insolent _brat_ ,” he breathes. “I should--”

“Send me to the stocks? Can’t do that out here.” Merlin looks up at Arthur from his position and he has the audacity to _smirk_ at him. 

“No. My hand isn’t nearly punishment enough for you. On your feet, Merlin.” 

It takes a moment for Merlin to obey, so Arthur slaps his arse to get him going. Merlin hisses and glares at him over his shoulder. He rises to his feet stiffly, but he still fails to display sufficient remorse that would make Arthur reconsider going so hard on him. His right cheek is lined with tracks from the bark he had his face shoved into. 

“Wait here a moment.” Arthur leaves Merlin bare-arsed where he stands and strides over to the circle of knights. “Sir Gwaine,” he says gallantly, bowing slightly and holding out his hand. “Might I borrow your knife?”

Gwaine blinks at Arthur. “Which one?”

“The biggest one you’ve got.”

“Uh. You’re not going to use it on Merlin, are you?” Gwaine asks, but he’s already reaching into his boot, pulling out a sturdy blade that’s nearly the length of his forearm. Arthur can always count on Gwaine to be carrying a multitude of hidden weapons on his person.

“Only in a roundabout sort of way,” Arthur says. “I’m going to whip him.”

“With the _knife_?” Gwaine splutters, but Arthur is already striding back over to Merlin. He’s standing with his hands cupped bashfully over his hard cock, but Arthur grabs his hand and yanks him towards the line of trees. 

“My hand isn’t nearly good enough for an insolent toad of a servant like you. So you’re going to decide what I hit you with, Merlin.” He presses the handle of the knife into his hand. “I want you to cut me a switch from a tree. But I’ll decide if it’s acceptable. And if it’s too small, or too short, I’ll send you back. Go on, now. If you keep me waiting too long, I’ll just double the number I’m planning to give you.” 

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, his words slowly sinking in. He grips the knife in his hand so hard his knuckles turn white. “Please, it’s freezing.”

“You’d better hurry up, then.”

Merlin groans, the sound caught in his throat behind tightly closed lips. Arthur gives him a swat on his arse that makes him get moving, awkwardly holding his breeches up with one hand as he shuffles towards the treeline. His face is as red as his arse, burning with humiliation, but he complies. This is the game they always play, pushing each other’s limits. They both know Arthur will give in first, that Merlin’s willing to take more than Arthur’s willing to dish out. Call it mindless dedication or a blind stubborn streak, or a death wish, but Merlin will give anything, _anything_ Arthur wants to take from him. 

With one hand gripping the knife and the other hand holding his breeches up between his knees, Merlin shuffles towards the trees. His fingers are freezing and it’s hard to get good leverage, but he uses the blade to carefully slice a thin oak branch. The first one he brings to Arthur is too thin and short (“this is a _noodle_ , Merlin”). The second one is much too big and knobby (“honestly, Merlin, do you think I want to kill you? I’m actually quite fond of your arse.”) The third one is about as thick as his pinky finger at the base, tapering off into a single thin tail. It doesn’t have any little knobs or buds that would cut into his arse and break the skin. Arthur gives it an experimental swish. It cuts through the air like a sword, whistling like a tea kettle, and the way Merlin winces at just the sound of the swish satisfies Arthur. 

“Over the log, Merlin.”

Arthur gives him a firm shove on his shoulder to help him get going. Merlin folds himself over the log, his face just inches from the dirty ground. Arthur presses his fingertips over Merlin’s bare arse. The skin is reddened and slightly swollen, hot under Arthur’s hand despite the bite of the frigid air around them. Most of his arse is tinged a salmon pink, but there are darker red splotches like spilt wine around his thighs, where Arthur had directed the brunt of his fury. Arthur taps his finger experimentally against one of the dark bruises. Merlin gasps, squirming over the log. 

“I’m going to give you six,” Arthur says. “Count them.”

“Before or after?”

Arthur would slap his forehead if his hand wasn’t already sore. Merlin never stops with the sassy backtalk, even if he does have a point. “ _After._ ” 

Arthur bounces the switch against Merlin’s arse before he lets it swing. The whistle makes him flinch before he even feels the blazing pain. The supple branch wraps around the curves of his arse, carving a river of fire into the flesh. The pain is deep and iron-hot and nothing like the tingly sting of Arthur’s cupped palm. Merlin yowls, fingers digging into the dirt ground beneath him. “One!” 

Arthur waits a moment for the heat to fully sink in. The switch has left a ribbon of dark red across Merlin’s arse, and he can feel every inch of it. Arthur runs his hand over the ridged line and Merlin whines, flailing his legs uselessly, still trapped in his breeches. 

“Are you sorry yet, Merlin?”

Merlin glares at him over his shoulder. 

Arthur gives him the second lash across the middle, fleshiest part of his bottom. Merlin digs his fingers into the muddy ground, his whole body rocking forward under the force of the blow. Tears spring to his eyes. “Two!” 

Number three hits him right across his sit spot. Merlin thrashes and wails, and Arthur has to wait a moment before he hears the count fall from his lips. “Th-three.” His voice is thick and wet, grated out through red bitten lips. 

The fourth one licks him across his thighs and Merlin’s whole body thrashes atop the log, his feet kicking up leaves and snow. It’s the worst one yet, and he needs to take a few deep, ragged breaths before he can speak. “Four.” His body is curled around the log like a question mark, his back heaving with his ragged breaths.

Arthur rests his palm on the side of Merlin’s face. Merlin turns his head into his hand and Arthur can feel hot, wet tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“Two more, love.” 

Merlin whimpers, his tears spilling over Arthur’s fingers, but the comfort from the small gesture of tenderness is enough to give him the resolve to continue. “It won’t happen again, Master. I promise. I promise.”

“I think you’re still missing something, Merlin. You know this is not just about the horses anymore. This is about your insolence and your rude mouth.” 

Merlin whimpers, shoulders bunching up towards his ears. He sucks in a shuddering, wet breath. But he offers no apology. 

Arthur draws back and gives him the next two lashes without pause. He delivers them in the gaps between the previous ones, making neat parallel lines. Merlin bucks, his sharp wail curling into the night air. “Five-six!” he cries. “I’m sorry!” He wraps himself around the log, rocking his hips against the bark in a desperate bid to get some friction on his cock. He can’t feel the individual lashes; his whole ass is encased in searing pain, but then there are Arthur’s hands, cool and hard against his blazing skin, rubbing softly. 

“Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,” Arthur says sweetly. He runs his hand lovingly through Merlin’s hair, feeling his curls damp with sweat. He presses massaging fingers into Merlin’s scalp, and when Merlin turns his head into Arthur’s hand for more, Arthur grips his hair and yanks his head back. Merlin’s eyes fly open with a gasp. “You’re not supposed to _enjoy_ your punishment.”

“You’re not supposed to enjoy punishing me,” Merlin replies without pause. “And yet, here we are.” 

Without warning, Arthur grabs the back of Merlin’s neckerchief and drags him to his feet. “Tent,” he growls, giving him a push forward as he holds onto the neckerchief like a collar. Merlin stumbles like a newborn colt, tripping over the breeches that are still pooled around his knees. Arthur notices that Merlin’s still hard as he pushes him through the tent and turns around to tie the straps closed. Merlin stands near the entrance, looking at Arthur uncertainly. 

“Just to be clear, this isn’t a punishment anymore,” Arthur says before he wraps his arms around Merlin and covers his mouth in a kiss. Merlin latches onto him, kissing him back like he’s starving. Arthur can taste the salt on his face from the tears. He lifts his thumb to wipe away the tear tracks. 

Merlin kisses the side of his hand. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

“I know, love. I’m sorry I had to punish you like that.” 

Merlin leans his head back and gives him a smile, his eyes twinkling. “I’m sorry I lost your horse. I’m not entirely sorry you had to punish me.” 

Arthur blinks at him, then chuckles and shakes his head. “What am I going to do with you, Merlin?” he asks. He takes Merlin’s shoulders and bodily turns him around, guiding him towards the bed, and in the small tent, it’s only a few paces before their feet find their destination. Merlin's knees hit the edge of the little cot and Arthur shoves him so he falls onto it. It’s not as large or nearly as comfortable as his bed back at home, but it will do for now. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whines. He picks himself up onto his hands and knees and presents his ass to Arthur like an offering. It’s reddened halfway down to the knees and lined with perfect parallel welts. 

“You can make all the noise you want, Merlin. But I’d remember that the knights are just outside the tent.” Arthur reaches between Merlin’s legs and finds what he’s looking for. He’s as pleased as he is surprised to find Merlin’s cock still hard and leaking. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Arthur asks. 

“Arthur,” Merlin moans. 

Arthur swats him, taking his hand away from his cock. “That’s not an answer. And you’re still not using my proper title.” 

Merlin’s chest falls against the cot, his hands next to his head, but his arse remains in the air, cheeks displayed like a flag of surrender. “Arthur,” he says again. It’s not just insolent sass this time; Merlin’s floating, his eyes have that glassy look that tells Arthur he’s miles above the earth. It’s a bit too soon for that, and Arthur needs to lead him back down. 

Arthur kneels on the cot behind him, between his legs. “Sit up,” he orders, poking Merlin in the back of the knee, which makes his leg jerk reflexively. “Remove my armour.” Arthur’s deep voice cuts through the haze of Merlin’s high, compelling him to obey. But he still takes a moment to follow through. Arthur is about to swat him again as a warning. But at the last moment, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, then straightens his arms and rises entirely with a swoop of his spine. It’s a moment so beautiful and so simple in its grace that for a moment Arthur forgets how to breathe. He’s collected himself again by the time Merlin turns around and kneels in front of him, lifting his shaking hands to the buckles on the pauldron. 

It’s a task that Merlin’s done so many times before he could do it with his eyes closed. He’s always loved the task of dressing and undressing Arthur in his armour. The armour is his life force, what protects him from swords of man and claws of beast. Merlin takes great pride in the honour of being the one to oil and polish it. He does the work by hand, without his magic, because the best results really do come from ‘elbow grease’, as his mother calls it. Sometimes he sits at the table in Arthur’s chambers and polishes away while Arthur lounges in bed and reads a book, or walks in circles around the table ranting at Merlin about his grievances with his father and the Court. Merlin treasures both of these times equally. No matter what the outcome of a battle may be, one thing will always be for certain: that armour is beautiful, though Merlin would never step forward to take the credit for his work. 

Merlin tries to let the familiar task anchor him down to Earth. He needs it, or he’ll find himself floating adrift. But he struggles with the first leather buckle, his fingers trembling so hard he can barely grasp the little metal clasp. “S-sorry,” he pants, after dropping the little tongue of leather for the third time. 

“It’s okay,” Arthur assures him. He pets Merlin’s head and brings his hand to rest on the back of his neck, not pressing, but letting his weight sink in. Merlin immediately becomes loose, chin falling against his chest. He lets out a slow breath. Takes another one in. Arthur provides him with a moment of warm reassurance before he lets him go. “Try again, love,” Arthur urges. 

Merlin does, and this time he finds success. He gets the buckles unfastened. Off comes the pauldron, the heavy plating which covers Arthur’s leading shoulder that isn’t afforded protection by his shield. Merlin takes it and then bends over to carefully stow it under the bed. 

Arthur knows Merlin would let him do anything to him. It’s a realization that hits him in moments like these, when Merlin follows his orders without question, when he tends to his armour with such care, as if the plating itself is a very extension of his prince. It scares him to his core. It’s what keeps him up at night, thoughts of losing Merlin, or of Merlin losing his trust in him. 

Off comes the rerebrace from his arm, the couter from around his elbow. Finally, the breastplate, the largest and heaviest piece of all. By the time Merlin lifts the heavy pieces of metal off Arthur’s chest and sets them gently on the floor, he’s stopped trembling. Arthur is left just wearing his chainmail, which rounds and softens all his edges. 

“Very good,” Arthur says, rewarding Merlin with a soft kiss. “Now lie down, love, on your stomach.” Merlin obeys. Arthur wants to spread him out naked across the cot and kiss every inch of his ivory skin. He regrets that it’s much too cold to have him how he likes him. He’ll have to settle for Merlin’s naked arse poking out through his breeches, and when they get home, in the warmth of stone walls and a proper bed, he’ll take him like he wants him. 

“Oil,” Merlin gasps. “We need oil.”

“We don’t have any in here.”

“Cooking oil, from the supply tent.”

“We don’t need it.” 

“Arthur, what-?” Merlin huffs as Arthur yanks his breeches down a few inches further, until they’re caught around his knees, effectively immobilizing his legs. 

“Shut it, Merlin, or I’ll gag you with your stupid neckerchief.”

Merlin is about to offer one of his witty comebacks, but then he _does_ shut up, because Arthur is pressing kisses to his swollen arse. He presses his face into the cot to muffle his own groan. 

“Remember, all the boys are out there. Leon. Gwaine. You don’t want them to hear, do you?”

“No,” Merlin gasps, his voice muffled by the linen sheet. “I can be quiet. I can be! I! Mmm!” Arthur is pressing his thumbs into the creases where Merlin’s arse meets his thighs, in between welts, rubbing in little circles. Merlin moans into the pillow, flapping his bound legs uselessly like a fish’s tail. 

“I don’t know, Merlin. You were yowling like a cat in heat when you were being whipped, and so far, you’re not doing that great a job of being quiet. You get hard during your punishment and then you expect _me_ to service you? It’s incredibly selfish of you.” He’s speaking like he’s in Court and the person in front of him is a minor Lord making ridiculous demands that are not worth the prince’s time. Arthur spreads his hands across Merlin’s arse, taking one cheek in each palm. Spreading them gently, he brushes over his thumb the tight hole (“ _Mmmnh!_ ” Merlin whimpers). “It’s a shame, really. Because I want to take you right here, on this cot. But I know how you get, love. And the boys are just outside. And I can’t have my knights hear your unseemly noises. I don’t know if I can trust you to stay quiet. Can you?”

“Gag me,” Merlin gasps, all in a rush. “Use my scarf, please.”

Arthur smiles, pleased. He retrieves the scarf from the floor, shakes out the dust, and folds it into a rectangle. Looks at Merlin.

“If you want to stop?”

Merlin holds up three fingers. 

“Head up, love.”

Merlin lifts his head from the mattress and opens his mouth. Arthur ties the scarf around his mouth, carefully leaving his nose free, and ties it tightly at the back of his head. Merlin can still breathe through the threadbare cloth, but he can already feel it getting wet with his spit, and he knows in a few minutes he’s going to be drooling. He groans, premature humiliation pooling hot at the bottom of his stomach. 

With Merlin sufficiently silenced, or at least muffled, Arthur spreads his cheeks apart with his thumbs and presses a sweet kiss to his hole. Merlin’s moan is audible even through the gag. He never does learn how to be quiet; there’s no way the knights _don’t_ already know. It’s one of Arthur’s favourite things about Merlin. He’s so _responsive_. It was never hard to find out what Merlin likes or doesn’t like; his body would tell Arthur whatever his mouth was too shy to request. 

Arthur flattens his tongue against the tight ring and feels Merlin’s whole body rock forward and then back. He shouts something against the gag that might be Arthur’s name. Arthur grips his thighs to keep him still and buries his face between the cheeks of his ivory arse. When he licks a wet stripe up his perineum, Merlin thrashes and shouts, choking out muffled gagged pleas. 

“You’re not even trying to be quiet,” Arthur scolds. In response, Merlin shakes his head, which could mean _no, I’m not trying_ or _no, I really am trying_. He presses his ass back up into the air, searching for that wet kiss. Arthur licks at his hole again, then rubs a single fingertip against it. He presses, and Merlin accepts him easily, until the digit is buried inside Merlin to the last knuckle. He stoops his head, drooling around Merlin’s hole, removing his finger so he can slide it right back in with the added lubrication. Merlin’s going wild, but it’s not _enough,_ just one finger, it’s not even close to how he wants to be taken. He tries to push his ass back, desperate for more, but Arthur holds him down, pressing his hand against the place at the base of his spine that makes him tremble like a spring leaf. He works the second finger into him slowly, then the third, as Merlin mewls and drools through his scarf. He’s pretty loud even with the gag - that’s something Arthur is not sure is ever going to change. 

“Are you ready for me, love?” Arthur grips Merlin’s hips and drags him up to his hands and knees. Merlin’s frantic nodding and pressing his ass back into Arthur’s hands is as much of a yes as he could ever get. He presses the head of his cock against his entrance and takes him in one hard, deep thrust. He sinks in until the fronts of his thighs come to rest against Merlin’s welted arse. The tight heat of Merlin’s ass surrounds him, whiting out everything else. Arthur hisses with pleasure, curving his hands around Merlin’s thighs. 

He sets a hard and frantic pace, the cot rocking beneath them. With every forward thrust, Arthur’s chainmail scrapes against the welts on Merlin’s ass. Merlin bows his head between his shoulders, then dips his chest towards the sheet. He melts lower and lower with each thrust until his arms are pinned under him and it’s just his ass in the air, giving himself into the relentless, driving force of Arthur’s cock inside him. The white-hot pain in his ass, and the equally intense pleasure, seem to encompass everything, narrowing his whole universe to the pinpoint of this moment. His life is Arthur’s, and there is no one but Arthur, bearing down on him with his thick cock.

“You’re going to come from this,” Arthur growls, dragging his cock inside Merlin now, not even thrusting, just grinding against that sweet spot in the base of his ass. “Me whipping you, and then fucking you without oil, and not even touching your cock.” He fists his hand in Merlin’s hair and yanks his head back. “You’re going to come when I do.”

Eyelids fluttering, Merlin nods. He can’t do anything but whimper and tremble. He’s been riding the crest of the wave since Arthur started spanking him and he’s almost there, so close. His cock is leaking onto the sheet beneath them. 

Arthur pulls his cock nearly almost all the way out, then drives into him with a thrust so forceful it pushes Merlin’s body up towards the edge of the cot. He shouts into Merlin’s hair as he comes, firework exploding at the base of his spine. Merlin spills over at the very same time, shooting his seed onto the sheets beneath him. It’s like being dunked into a hot bath, the pleasure singing through his veins, drowning out everything else. 

Arthur drags his forehead along Merlin’s spine as he slides his cock out of him, sighing at the relief of pressure. Merlin is still trembling beneath him as Arthur undoes the knot at the back of Merlin’s head and lets the scarf fall loose to the mattress. With that out of the way, he flops onto his back and pulls Merlin against his chest. Merlin cuddles right up against him like a cat, resting his head on Arthur’s chest with a contented sigh. 

When they get home tomorrow, Arthur will get a special salve for the welts from Gaius and apply it to Merlin’s ass, tender hands making up for their previous brutality. But for now, it’s only the two of them, cuddled up in the warm cot while the winter winds blow around their tent.


End file.
